Ruination
by BushRat8
Summary: In a nameless Caribbean port, an equally nameless 32-year-old spinster innkeeper recounts her recurring acquaintance with Captain Hector Barbossa beginning from the age of 14. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This chapter takes place pre-CotBP. My belief is that Barbossa had his own ship at this time, but as often happened, he lost it during a spell of bad luck.

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

Author's Prologue: Stories about Captain Hector Barbossa generally concern his life on the sea. Through them, we know him as commander and strategist, fighter and orator (his speeches are brilliant). We know that when he steps off his ship, it's generally to indulge in drinking and whoring and gambling and other such eminently respectable occupations for pirates.

But what happens when he grows tired of the constant claustrophobic bustle, as all men burdened with the terrible responsibility of a ship and a crew must sometimes do? Where, when he's able, does he go for refreshment; to breathe the larger air; to get away from it all? What does he like to do during those rare moments when he's alone and permitted to be lazy? And who might he see, over and over again, as the years pass?

Away from his ship, away from the sea, away from the men whose lives he's accountable for and with whom he's been cooped up for months… what sort of man might Barbossa be?

* * *

**RUINATION**

* * *

Nothing much in this town has changed within anyone's living memory. Ships come, ships go, legitimate and outlaw alike, and with them, the endless procession of sailors. Most never make it to the small inn that is my meagre living, for while it may be a bit shabby and frayed, it is still respectable, and respectability is not what they're after. But some very few, desiring to rid themselves of the boisterous company of those with whom they've been boxed up for months on end, appear on my doorstep to avail themselves of privacy, relative quiet, decent food, and a clean room in which to relax and do their drinking. No women are allowed in the rooms with them. There are plenty of other houses for that.

I first saw the tall, mahogany-tressed man when I was fourteen years old and Grantham House still belonged to my grandmother. "He's a dangerous one, you mark my words," Nan warned me when she realized he was headed toward our door. "Go hide yourself in the storeroom, girl, unless you want to find yourself ruined."

It was laughable that she should profess such concern as, granddaughter or not, I was still the lowly maidservant who changed out the rooms during the day, emptied the chamber pots, ran errands for the guests, and waited at table. If this man was going to ruin me, he would have plenty of opportunity to get a good look beforehand. Nonetheless, I did as Nan ordered, although I sneaked out again to peek at the ledger once she'd gone to escort him to his room. 'Capt. H. Barbossa.' Unlike most of the other guests, he'd not indicated the name of his ship.

A pirate, I decided; at the very least, a man operating not entirely within the law. Even I knew it was easier to locate a whole ship than a single man, should the authorities get it into their heads to examine our records. Clearly, this captain knew it, too.

Serving at dinner that evening, I was so unnerved by the bright aquamarine eyes Captain Barbossa turned my way that I nearly dropped onto his lap the platter of roast chickens I held. Nan was furious at my clumsiness, but he only laughed — a sharp, dark sound I could imagine carrying over vast distances of open air and ocean — and moved aside slightly so I could get the tray onto the table without further mishap. "Well, young missy," he said. "What's a little thing like you doin' wrestlin' chickens six at a time? Looks t' me like ye're a mite outmatched."

"Beg pardon, sir," was all I could manage to mumble before fleeing back to the kitchen, the laughter of everyone at the table drifting after me.

I learned a bit about him during the remainder of the eight days he spent with us: that he expected his demands to be attended to promptly, which did not surprise me, and that he was extremely quiet and tidy in his habits while in the house, which did. When my duties made necessary entry into his room, I saw that there were both wine and rum bottles on the dresser, but judging from the levels of liquor in them, he was a man who sipped rather than swilled. Even when returning from the taverns, he was never obviously drunk; no small thing to one who frequently had to clean up after snockered men who couldn't figure out which of three chamber pots they were pissing into.

I discovered that the captain had brought with him a thick book, and that he would while away hours at a time just lying on his bed, reading. The cover was cracked brown leather with the formerly-gilt title worn off, and fear of discovery kept me from opening it to find out what it was. But I confess that I found the thought of this imposing man spending his time in such a solitary, contemplative way quite... interesting.

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

The following year, I found out what the 'H' in Captain Barbossa's name stood for. "Has yer Nan seen fit t' educate you then, missy?" he inquired when he saw me examining the ledger with my finger below the initial, after which he told me his Christian name. "D' ye know th' tale of Hector an' what befell him?"

I'd learned the story of the Trojan War, so I nodded.

"He were a brave man, true, but I don't intend t' end up like him."

I will never know what gave me the brass to say what I did next. "I'm glad."

Then I blushed ten hideous shades of red and ran off, though not before I saw he was smiling and that the blue frost in his eyes had melted, leaving them warm.

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

At sixteen, I began to anticipate Captain Barbossa's next arrival with something I didn't quite know was pleasure, and I would have been horrified, once he got here, had I known he realized I was making my first awkward attempts to play the coquette. Even I didn't realize it, come to that.

"How old are ye now, missy?" he asked one evening as I brought to his room the extra candles he'd asked for.

"I was sixteen in the spring."

"Old enough."

Looking back at it now, I still can't believe I was idiot enough to reply, "Old enough for what?"

His laughter held in it something that rooted me to the spot even as it made me know I should run, and to cover my sudden nervousness I asked him, "What are you reading, Captain?"

I got the shock of my life when he held up the same leather-bound volume I'd seen at his first visit and told me, "The Good Book."

"What?"

"Astounds you, does it, missy?" Barbossa was carefully flipping through the pages, and presently, he pressed his Bible open to a favored spot. "'Tis quite an adventursome read, if y' know where t' look. Shall I recite somethin' to you?" His smile was warm and his manner inviting. "Perhaps th' Song of Songs?"

_What?! _"Nan said if she ever catches me reading that, she'll put my eyes out so I can never read anything else again!" I blurted out.

"Aye, she would," the captain snorted. "Yer Nan's a dry old woman, lass; don't let her make you into one, too. Now, shall I read it to you or not?"

Lord, why did I always have to blush in his presence? "No," I said, setting the candles down and turning to leave the room.

But I didn't leave fast enough to miss his sigh and soft murmur of, "Pity."

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

Seventeen saw me in the midst of an uncomfortable transition. I was no longer a child and I knew that others my age were being courted and married, but I remained mired in the minutiae of running Grantham House and had no time for such things.

At that, who would have courted me? Whom would I have wished to marry? There was only one man who had ever made me feel like I'd grown into a woman, and it was those feelings which made Nan's long-ago talk of ruination come back to nudge me in the belly.

I could not forget Captain Barbossa's offer to read aloud to me the Song of Songs, and every night as I tried to sleep, I imagined his dark voice forming the forbidden words. In fact, I knew much of that book already — I wasn't such an obedient child that I never disregarded Nan's directives — but reading it with my own eyes and hearing such unbridled verses from the captain's lips were two entirely different things.

But he did not repeat his offer to read it to me when next he came for a sojourn at Grantham House, though his eyes followed me, with an expression in them I didn't quite understand, whenever our paths chanced to cross.

When he went away again, it was without our having exchanged more than necessary words, and it left me hurt and wondering: was it because he had no further interest in me, or might it be because he did?

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

On my following birthday, Nan announced that now I was grown, it was time for me to take a lot more of the work off her shoulders.

One of the additional responsibilities I had was that of showing our guests to their rooms and making sure they understood the schedule and amenities of the house. Captain Barbossa knew very well how Grantham House operated, but he gamely bore my explanations before looking me up and down and saying, in a strained, thick tone I'd not heard from him before, "'Tis a fine young woman ye've grown into, missy, an' no mistake. Must you rush off just yet? Might you not stay awhile?"

Oh my. A flick of one of the feathers in his hat and you would have tipped me right over.

Eighteen, with no marriage prospects, I'd been sure I would live out my life on the island alone, unwanted, and dry, so to hear such words from a man I'd come to find most alluring was more than this maiden could bear. It wasn't that I was stupid enough to believe he would want more than a single, simple dalliance — such men never do — but the thought that he might prefer a few moments with me, an ordinary innkeeper's granddaughter, over the exotic pleasures he could obtain from any number of more professional ladies sent a warmth flowing from an inward place that I'd heretofore barely acknowledged. And I might have stayed were it not for the hateful blare of Nan's voice shouting my name.

"I'm sorry, Captain," I said to him, hoping he'd know just how much I meant it. "I... it's just... Nan'll flay me alive if I don't get back to my work."

I don't know what the expression was that crossed the captain's face, whether it might be vexation at being denied that after which he lusted, or sadness at a thwarted longing to feel an unbought touch. "Shame, that," he replied quietly. "The old woman's a wretched slavedriver, not least when th' one she be drivin's her own kin. Still, mayhap ye might pay me a visit on the morrow, eh?"

There was only one word I dared say. "Perhaps."

He thought it was a good enough answer, and it earned me a smile and a soft flick of his fingers under my chin. "You'll not regret it."

But I never got the chance to find out if I would or not, as Captain Barbossa was called away in a great bustle of haste and commotion shortly after dawn. The last I saw of him, he was striding down the lane that led away from Grantham House, the plait of his red-brown hair swinging behind him and the feathers adorning his cartwheel of a hat ruffling in the breeze.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Immediately post-AWE.

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

It has been fourteen years since I last saw Captain Barbossa, and I wonder if the sad, hard fate of antiquity's Hector has claimed his modern-day namesake. Which Achilles finally did him in? Did he die by the sword, ship's guns, the noose, or another man's pistol? Did his own ship take him down to an uncertain rest at the bottom of the sea? I am sure there was no Apollo to preserve the captain from defilement and corruption, and I cannot bear the thought of that thick russet hair turning to lank seaweed, or the beautiful blue of his eyes dispersing into the greater, more relentless blue of the ocean, leaving only the empty sockets to be homes for eels.

Or has he simply forgotten this place and the calm in which he used to take such pleasure? Has he forgotten me?

I tell no one of my aching grief and the emptiness inside; barely dare voice it aloud lest its weight will crush me. And there is naught else I can do save to submerge my loneliness in work.

Seven years ago, when I was 25, Nan died and Grantham House became mine to run, but there's been little joy in it for me. Several of my favorite guests have either died or retired, and the few new ones who come to take their place are often a less-than-pleasant lot. They adhere to my rules, more or less, but they also steal linens and plate, forcing me to replace them and using up my earnings even before they're in my purse. If Captain Barbossa returns and discovers what has become of his quiet retreat, he will set things right, I am sure of it.

I might as well wish to be Queen of the Moon.

* * *

-oOo-

* * *

It's been a long, exasperating day; I'm tired, and all I want to do is sit in my room soaking my feet in a pan of warm water before dropping face-first onto my bed. It's little enough to ask, but no sooner do I begin to relax than I hear the tinkle of the bell I keep near the guest register, signaling that I am wanted to receive a late arrival.

Oh, for God's sake!

It's rare that I have a lodger arrive so close to midnight and, entering the front room, I'm forced to greet this one in my shawl and dressing gown. But any irritation I feel leaves me instantly when I see who it is.

"Never mind, Cora," I tell my sleepy maidservant, barely able to contain myself. "You go back to bed; I'll have this gentleman sign the ledger and see to whatever he needs myself."

The captain is silent as he dips the quill and signs his name — still just Capt. H. Barbossa, without reference to his ship — then follows me up familiar stairs, down a familiar hallway, and into a familiar room that I'm glad I can provide. "I apologize for the furnishings not being as fine as you might remember," I quaver, and I am unable to meet that blue gaze. "Nan died a few years back and I'm afraid I don't have her knack for making enough money to keep Grantham House as I'd like it."

He only chuckles and slips his fingertips under my chin in echo of an earlier time, forcing me to look up. "'Tis not the furnishin's I come for, missy, but the peace," he tells me, "of which I've had fair little these many years. Though I'll admit, I've found great merriment an' joy here, too, not least in a little servin' maid a-doin' her best t' bury me pride under a pile o' roasted chickens."

God Almighty, he hasn't forgotten. Part of me is pleased, part utterly mortified, and all I can do is blush and mutter, "I'm so sorry, I never meant to..."

But, "Hush, lass," Barbossa interrupts, putting one finger lightly over my lips to silence me. "Ne'er be sorry that you gave me such a fine moment t' remember, for 'tis such memories as gets a man through th' darkest hours of his life."

"What, remembering that I nearly gave your fine clothes a soaking in grease?" It comes out in a squawk and my blush deepens.

The captain laughs, then; the same lovely sound I remember from the time in question. "No matter that yer Nan kept you clothed in a sackish thing too poor even for a workhouse," he says thoughtfully, his voice low, and I know he's looking me over the same way he did the last time we stood on this very spot. "You were a pretty child then, for all yer frock were an ill-fittin' one, an' you grew to a lovely girl." He bites his lip. "But by Christ, 'tis an even more handsome woman y' are now, an' no mistake."

I'm... surprised? Elated? Appalled? Doesn't he see the old maid I've become?

"There's been many things as have gripped my mind durin' all th' past years since I've seen you," Barbossa goes on, "but I'll have ye know: through all of it, I remembered this place, and I remembered you, and I longed for ye both."

I can only nod mutely to show that I remembered and longed for him, too.

"I'm glad, lass." His weatherworn face beams approval and I see hope in his tired blue eyes. "Now, I know 'tis late and you might still have business to attend to — ye're rather like a cap'n in this house, see? — but still..." He takes a step closer. "Must you rush off just yet? Might you not stay awhile?"

This time, I do not drop my eyes from his even though it means he will see their shine of tears at this second chance to answer his question; a question that has burned deep inside my heart and my belly every day of these fourteen long years.

"Might you not stay?"

It is a whisper the likes of which I never dreamed to hear from this man. It is a whisper I never wanted to hear from any other.

No matter that I do not know how long this can last; the ruination I've wanted so long at Captain Barbossa's — Hector's — hands is finally within my reach and it makes me brave enough to put my own hands against his face, the soft curls on his cheeks and chin running through my fingers.

He inches forward, leans down to let me feel the brush of a bearded jaw against my temple, the wisp of an auburn moustache at the corner of my mouth. "Will you stay?"

I have long wondered what the words would taste like straight from his lips, and now I know: there is salt and wine and something tartly sweet that I would know if I were calmer. "Per... perhaps," is all I can squeak out, and I feel like a small child, an idiot, a stammering fool.

No. I feel like a woman who wants this man so badly that I will begin whimpering at any moment.

But what Captain Barbossa thought was a good enough answer before will not do for him now. "Will you stay?" It is soft, insistent. It is he who is whimpering. "Will you? Ye'll not regret it."

I cannot speak. I can barely breathe.

But I _can_ close the door behind us.

FIN


End file.
